How House Learned to Relax and Love the Bomb
by BethTX
Summary: Just your typical cliched postnuclear holocaust HouseWilson first time slash humorfic. Nothing unusual here. Been done to death.
1. Chapter 1

1_**Title**: How House Learned to Relax and Love the Bomb_

_**Author's Note**: Just your typical cliched post-nuclear holocaustHouse/Wilson first time slash humorfic. Nothing unusual here._ _Been done to death._

_**Warning**: If you put a plastic Tupperware lid on the bottom rack of the dishwasher it will melt. Go ahead and flame me for this story if you'd like, but let's not pretend I didn't warn you about the Tupperware._

_**Further Author's Note: **Before reading this story it would help to read Proust and brush up on your Heidegger. I don't mean you need them to understand this story. Lord, no. But they will help you become a more well-rounded person and far more entertaining at parties. To understand this story you just need large amounts of alcohol and the illegal drug of your choice. So wash down that quaalude with the rest of that tequila and let's go..._

It was kinda funny how the world suddenly blew up. Well, not funny as in "ha ha Carlos Mencia" type of funny, but more along the lines of "hmm, that was odd and unexpected" type of funny. Come to think of it, some people wouldn't find it funny at all, but most of _those_ wet blankets were either dead or dying and were of no concern to the doctors making their way through the dusty, rubble-strewn streets of what used to be New Jersey.

To be fair, most of New Jersey had been dusty and rubble-strewn even before the bomb. Couldn't blame that one on the North Koreans. But Princeton Plainsboro had once been a very nice, decent place to go on about the business of being alive and was only now a dump. Fucking North Koreans. This was exactly the reason the world didn't allow small rogue nations to have weapons more powerful than pea shooters.

When nuclear devices go off, a lot of unpleasant things happen; in fact, an air blast over your city can ruin your dinner plans quite effectively. Fortunately, when the bomb dropped outside Princeton Plainsboro House and Wilson were eating lunch in the basement morgue. This was House's latest hideaway from Cuddy and her insane, bitchy insistence that he do his job. He had no real problem with doing his job, except that it was work and work was boring and germy and he didn't wanna.

Wilson didn't object to eating in the morgue. It was cool and quiet down there and besides, it did no good to object to anything House wanted, anyway. This was why, when House finished his own lunch and attacked his friend's, Wilson didn't bother to do more than sigh and push the plate closer.

"You know, some people do-" he started when there was a huge rumbling sound and the hospital started to shake.

House was startled enough to drop Wilson's dinner roll. "Either that's an earthquake or Chase just closed escrow with that new NICU resident."

Wilson's eyes widened. "What the hell was that?"

"Okay, see, that question would have gone better if asked _before _my comment, but I'll let it slide." House heaved himself to his feet and the two doctors made their way to the elevators. Wilson punched the button and nothing happened.

"Can you make it up the stairs?"

House batted his eyes. "With you at my side, anything's possible."

They made their way slowly to the lobby floor and opened the exit door. The scene in front of them was chaos. The lobby was in ruins, glass everywhere from the glass doors and windows blowing in, people staggering around, dust swirling through the air. All in all, it looked like the Nets had won the championship.

House surveyed the destruction. "Good job, Chase." He sobered. "And speaking of my ducklings..." He started off toward his office at a pace that belied the fact that half of his right thigh was toast.

Wilson followed on his heels anxiously. House's office was a microcosm of the mess in the lobby. House was searching through the rubble, counting ducklings. "One," he remarked, pointing at Cameron, who emerged from under the desk. "Two," he continued, waving his cane at Chase, who was, remarkably, still sleeping peacefully on the couch. He frowned. "Okay, so we have the pretty one. And Cameron. I'm still a minion short, so has anyone seen the black sheep of the family?"

"Here," Foreman called, stepping in cautiously. He was covered with dust that had turned his dark skin gray.

House looked around. "Show of hands: who here expects me to make a Michael Jackson joke?" When no one responded, he shrugged. "Okay, so does anyone know what happened to make this hospital al fresco? It seems like the place had windows last time I-" he trailed off, looking out the window. "Oh, fuck. Not good."

Wilson followed his gaze. Outside, day had turned to night and small fires seemed to be everywhere. That was bad enough, but there was also a mushroom cloud hanging far in the distance. Wilson considered several exclamations, but "oh fuck, not good" seemed to cover the situation nicely.

"What should we do?" Cameron looked to House, panicked.

House held out his pill bottle. "We could all get stoned and watch The Day After." Cameron's face fell and acquired that reproachful look. "No, you're right, that movie always makes Wilson horny. I guess we can go see what the Wicked Witch of the West has to say." He made his way toward the door. "Come, ducklings."

Pausing by the couch, House gave Chase a sharp poke in the kidneys.

"Oy!" he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. "House, dammit, I was-" he stopped. Blinked. Looked around. "Where did your office go?" he asked slowly.

"It's still here, koala kid," House soothed. "Just not in one piece. C'mon. Someone will fill you in as we go."

They found Cuddy in her office, surrounded by shaken doctors and nurses. House burst through the door, causing several yips of fear. He shot Cuddy a disappointed look. "Oh damn, I was hoping the hospital had fallen on you. I _so_ wanted those ruby slippers."

Cuddy glared. "As I was saying, we need to stay calm and prepare for an influx of massive casualties. Dr. Reyes, as head of the Disaster Preparedness Committee, you take the lead on contacting government officials. Dr. Anderson, take a team and set up a triage center in the lobby."

There was probably a lot more, some of it important, but House stared off into space, a strange Mona Lisa smile on his handsome face. "You know what this means, right?" he mused out loud. "I'm out of clinic duty permanently!"

END PART 1


	2. Chapter 2

A few hours later, House was reconsidering. Administering to mass casualties was like clinic duty writ large. Clinic duty assigned by Cuddy's boss Lucifer. Clinic duty in the deepest pit of hell where his soul would eventually reside.

The downside to post-apocalyptic clinic duty, House found, was that people were still morons. No amount of megatons could cure that and neither could he. Sure, there were more interesting wounds, but they were still clinic patients, and so came the inevitable-

"I'm sneezing, Doctor," the middle-aged man said anxiously. "I think it's radiation sickness."

House popped another Vicodin, his fourth of the day and the day was young. "Doubt it."

The moron twisted his hands nervously. "But my cousin said that sneezing can be an early sign of radiation sickness, and he was one of these guys who knew everything, and that if you catch it in time-"

"And your cousin is where?" House broke in, looking pointedly around the empty exam room.

"He's dead," the moron said dejectedly. "Crushed by a fallen building downtown."

"Thus proving my point: see, if your cousin had actually _known_ everything he would have known enough to get out of the way." He pointed toward the window. "See how dusty it is out there?"

The moron nodded, slack-mouthed.

House rolled his eyes. "Not making the connection yet? Okay, try to follow the bouncing ball on this one: dust...sneezing...dust...sneezing...dust...well, now I'm just getting repetitious."

The moron blinked. Once. Twice. "So you're saying..."

House nodded encouragingly.

"...that my sneezing is...allergies?"

House beamed. "Good afternoon and welcome to the logical conclusion." He stood up. "You're fine. Go be somewhere that's not here."

He limped out into the hall. "Wilson!"

No answer. He looked around, mildly anxious that Wilson was out of his sight and mildly worried that he was mildly anxious over Wilson being out of his sight. He searched around before finally finding Foreman preparing to amputate a crushed leg. "Seen Wilson?"

Foreman didn't bother to look around. "Little busy here, House."

"Yeah, and you're waaay too close to the femoral for comfort." He jabbed his cane over Foreman's shoulder. "Move the cut about a half-inch down." He limped onward.

In the lobby Chase was kneeling beside an orderly, bandaging his cut forehead.

"Seen Wilson?"

Chase pushed strands of hair out of his face. "Not my day to keep track of him," he said shortly.

House put on a sorrowful face. "And I thought you Catholics were your brothers' keepers. Make sure you check that cut for glass particles." He moved into the hall.

Cameron was sedating a woman prior to popping her separated right shoulder.

"Seen Wilson?"

Cameron shook her head. "I could use some help here, though."

House nodded. "Bet you could. Hard to pop a shoulder in place alone. Watch your angles when you do, though." Anxiety building, he soldiered on.

He finally caught sight of the missing Wilson, sitting on the floor and trying to get a small child with a bandaged leg to hold still for an injection. _I did _not_ miss him and I am _not_ relieved_ _at finding_ _him_, House thought stubbornly.

He stormed up to his friend. "I did _not _miss you and I am _not _relieved at finding you!" he stated firmly. _Ooops._

To his credit, Wilson looked only slightly confused. "Okaaaay, now that we've established that, help me hold Greta."

House slowly sank to the floor with a pained grunt and took the child into his lap. "Hi, Greta. I'm Greg," he said in what he hoped was a conciliatory tone. He knew there were two kinds of children: criers and biters. This kid wasn't crying.

She glared up at him and crossed her arms. "No shot!" she said defiantly.

Wilson reached out to stroke her hair. "Honey, your leg is cut. The shot will make sure you don't get sick from all the germs."

House hadn't thought it possible for a four-year-old to sneer, but the kid was giving it the old college try. "Germs don't live in your _legs_," she said in a tone that made it clear she thought Wilson had gotten his medical degree from a Fruity Pebbles box. "They live in your butt. _That's _why you wash your hands after you poo."

"Well, some do live there, but some live on your skin and those can get into your blood if you have a cut." Wilson gave her his best 'I'm harmless' smile. That smile had sent three wives, six nurses, and countless girlfriends tumbling into bed. Apparently, four-year-olds were immune.

Greta frowned. "The shot will hurt. My leg doesn't."

Wilson rubbed his eyes. "House, are you sure you don't have a daughter?"

As much as he was enjoying this-after all, how often was James Wilson unable to convince someone to do something-it was messing with his schedule. House decided to step in and save his friend.

"Wilson, take your hand off of her before it becomes best friends with her incisors." He looked down at the ragamuffin in his lap. "I hurt my leg once, too," he said.

Some of the suspicion left Greta's eyes. "You did?"

"Uh huh."

"Was it bad?" Now she looked interested. Good. Maybe the biting would not commence.

"Real bad."

"Did it hurt?"

House nodded. "A lot."

"Is that why you walk funny now?"

"Yeah." He thought for a moment. Oh, what the hell. "Feel right there." He guided Greta's hand to his right leg, hoping like hell that no one would mistake him for a pervert and come deck him. He'd just have to count on Wilson to protect him if someone did.

She ran her small hand over the deep scar where thigh muscle used to be. "Wow!" She looked up at him with awe.

"Know how I got better?"

Greta shook her head, eyes wide.

"Dr. Wilson took care of me." He stoically ignored the intense look his best friend suddenly gave him. He thought he could actually feel the oncologist's mush-o-meter hitting ten, but that might just have been the ventilation system failing.

Greta screwed up her mouth in deep toddler thought, caught between trusting the man with the really cool chewed-up leg and actually believing the folly that Wilson might know what he was doing. He was, after all, a man who believed that germs lived on skin. She decided on further research. "Did he give you a shot?"

"He did."

"Did it hurt?"

House nodded. "Yes, but only for a second. Dr. Wilson is a very good doctor."

Greta considered. "Better than you?"

"Well, I wouldn't say-see, he's a-and I specialize in-" House sighed. "Yes, better than me." Jesus, he knew he'd be hearing about this later. This was the kind of comment that stuck with you for life and got taken down from the shelf to be used in arguments for years to come.

Greta peered critically at Wilson for a moment. Reluctantly, her expression turned to one of grudging respect. "Okay," she said finally, holding out her arm. Her free hand clutched House's sleeve tightly and she winced in anticipation of the needle.

Wilson deftly administered the shot, speaking softly. "Okay, almost done...you're a brave girl...just a second...done!" He tossed the needle into the biohazard container. "There. Not so bad, was it?"

Greta sniffled once and shook her head.

"Greta?" A young woman with her arm in a cast came out of the clinic. "Were you good for the nice doctors?"

Greta nodded enthusiastically. "I didn't even bite this time, Mommy!"

Wilson looked mildly alarmed, but House just nodded serenely. He'd called it.

Greta jumped up off House's lap. "Well, see ya," she said brightly.

They watched her walk off hand in hand with her mother, limping slightly.

In the silence that stretched out, House became aware of Wilson staring at him with that _look_. He held up a hand to forestall what was coming. "Save the gentle brown eyes and heartfelt speech for the fourth ex-Mrs.Wilson. It makes me puke." He struggled to his knees and held out his hand. "Up."

Wilson seemed to want to say something, then settled for smiling slightly and giving his friend a hand up.

House brushed himself off. "Okay, lunch time. Let's go. You're buying."

"House, we ate a few hours ago!" He knocked a few pieces of glass from his pants. "I bought then, too."

"So why break a good record? I'm sure they're having really great After Bomb sales on slightly irradiated Reubens." He tugged none too gently on Wilson's collar, forcing him to follow or be strangled.

They made their way across the crowded floor, headed for the cafeteria with its promise of glorious, oncologist-financed meals. They'd gotten as far as the doors when a conversation caught House's attention.

A harassed-looking Cuddy was talking to a man in a military uniform. Army, if House wasn't mistaken, and he rarely was. He limped closer to hear what they were saying.

"We're setting up a shelter just outside of town," army dude was saying. "We'd like to have a couple of your doctors if you can spare them. We have others flying in, but we'd like to have the shelter set up ASAP."

Cuddy nodded. "Eventually, we'll have to start turning people away from here. We'll definitely need somewhere to send them. You can have-"

"Wilson and me," House broke in, dragging Wilson along. He smiled and stuck out his hand. "Dr. Gregory House. This is Dr. James Wilson. We'd be happy to help out wherever we're needed. I also have a team of three at your disposal. I can round them up in a few minutes."

Army Dude shook the outstretched hand heartily and gave a grateful smile in return, oblivious to the looks of shock and suspicion being shot at House by the other doctors. "Great! I'd appreciate that. I have a transport waiting outside."

"Probably big and green and looks like a booger with wheels," House said, almost cheerfully. "We'll wait for you there. C'mon, Jimmy." He tugged on Wilson's collar again, but this time met with resistance. He managed to drag his friend a few yards before he had to let go or condemn Wilson to death by dress shirt.

"Why are you volunteering?" the younger man asked. "You never volunteer for anything. If they asked for volunteers for a free lap dance you'd decline just on general principle."

House sighed like a teacher stuck with a particularly slow student. "Because it gets us out of here. This place is filled with patients. You know I'm allergic."

"Soooo, you're planning to get away from patients by going to another place filled with patients?" Wilson shook his head. "Why does that make sense in your universe?"

"You heard the man. The place isn't set up yet. Who knows how long it'll take to get it up and running?"

"So why drag your team along?"

House rolled his eyes. "Because they're my ducklings. Because I'd worry about leaving them home alone while Daddy and Uncle Jimmy went on vacation. Because someone has to do the really gross work."

"Okay, I'll go." Wilson threw his hands in the air. He pointed a stern finger at House. "But you have to promise to do your fair share."

The diagnostician pasted a wounded look to his face. "When have I not?"

Mentally, he grinned. Out of the hospital. Ducklings to do his bidding. A nice, remote spot, and maybe some time alone with Wilson.

Mentally, he frowned. _I do _not _want time alone with Wilson._ _Who would? He's nothing special. Okay, his hair is soft. His cheekbones are high. His eyes are warm. His shoulders are strong. When he smiles the whole room lights up._

House shook himself. "Hey, Wilson, you're ugly."

END PART 2


	3. Chapter 3

1_Author's Note: I won't give any spoilers, but tonight's episode bit the fucking big one and left me wondering when the writers were replaced with pods. Here's hoping this chapter cheers someone up._

Crossing a city is simple enough. Crossing a city that has been spanked flat by a nuclear explosion is more problematic. For one thing, there's a lot of debris clogging the road in the form of trees, buildings, cars, dead bodies, etc. For another thing, people no longer feel the need to respect the no-pedestrians-in-the-street thing. This all meant that the truck carrying the five doctors had to stop roughly every five minutes to move something or someone. All-in-all, it was like crossing Calcutta at rush hour during a typhoon while your mother was driving you in her Yugo.

None of this bothered the stalwart doctors. They were professional healers on a mission only to save the citizens of Princeton. No hardship would deter their uncomplaining spirits.

"This sucks." Chase announced poutily for perhaps the fifth time since they had started out across town in the bumpy personnel carrier.

"Of _course _it sucks." Foreman decided to reply this time, just for something to do. "The world blew up. Sorry, your litter-bearers are dead, you'll have to make due with military transportation."

The Australian doctor shot him the finger irritably.

House ruffled Chase's blonde hair. "Awww, leave Dr. Barbie alone, Foreman. He's just upset that all the hair gel factories have been wrecked."

To be fair to Chase, it _was_ pretty uncomfortable. The doctors were crammed into the personnel carrier with roughly 8000 soldiers and their gear. Personal space was at an extreme premium on this ride and it was bumpy, so it wasn't House's fault if his left side tended to rub against Wilson's right side now and then. If he was shifting that way a bit, it was just that he preferred to brush against his best friend rather than the giant Dolph Lundgren lookalike on his other side. And if he tended to notice how warm Wilson's body was or that he still smelled pleasantly of Obsession cologne, it was just that...that...

House glared at the oncologist. "Hey, Wilson, you're sweaty and you stink."

Wilson didn't even bother to look over. "And you're a colossal, limping pain in the ass. Who's to say which is worse?"

After that, House had tried to distract himself by starting a sing-along, but that hadn't gone over well. He had taken the lyrics to "Dontcha" and customized them to the whole team. "Dontcha wish that Wilson didn't have VD" gave way to "Dontcha wish that Foreman didn't steal your weed" and "Dontcha wish that Robbie had a schlong like me". He'd just started on a good, solid "Dontcha wish that Allie didn't smell like pee" when "Allie's" foot collided with his shin. Jeez. Touchy. At least the soldiers seemed to think he was funny.

After _that_, he'd taken to repeatedly banging his cane on Wilson's foot and saying "Are we there yet?" until Wilson yanked his cane away and handed it to Foreman. Well, hell. No one had a sense of humor anymore?

It felt like they'd been riding for at least seven or eight hours, but House didn't think that likely. Someone would have had to take a whiz in that time. It was full-dark when the truck finally stopped for the last time.

The soldiers picked up their gear and piled out of the transport. House went last, trying to figure out the best way to get down without landing on his right leg. Ignoring Wilson's outstretched hand, he chose to slowly sink to the floor and slide on his butt until his feet touched. He straightened and looked around expectantly. "What? No applause?"

Wilson gave him a sarcastic round. "Very nice, House. You looked like a kid on the playground slide."

"The slide is a perfect metaphor for life," House said, reclaiming his cane from Foreman. "You struggle up the ladder, come crashing down to land on your ass in the dirt, only to get back up and do it all over again."

Wilson frowned. "That doesn't even _begin _to make sense to anyone but you." He sighed. "And sadly, to me."

House took a moment to survey their surroundings. The camp was set up close to the woods on the outskirts of town, a green tent paradise swarming with military personnel. Kind of like Emerald City if the munchkins had been camoflaged and armed.

"Dr. House? Dr. Wilson?"

And here was Oz the Great and Powerful. The Army Dude from the hospital.

"We should be up and ready by tomorrow morning, but for now we've got a mess tent and some sleeping quarters over there." He pointed to a spot close to the road where a group of soldiers were coming and going with meals in their hands.

Food. Food was good, especially since House had never gotten his second lunch. To his disappointment, "food" turned out to be the standard military MRE-Meal Ready to Eat. He looked down at his package. "Meatloaf, mashed potatoes and pound cake. And oh, look-" he held up a small bottle. "Hot sauce. Who the hell puts hot sauce on meatloaf?"

"Missing my stuffed peppers right about now?" Wilson gloated as they made their way to the sleeping tents. He plopped down in the grass where a dozen or so soldiers were enjoying their meals and started eating.

House made a face. "Yes. Your stuffed peppers just _smell_ like someone spewed on a plate. This shit," he poked the mystery loaf "smells like it, looks like it, and probably tastes like it." He took a cautious bite. "Yep. Just needs some bile and a few pieces of corn floating in it for dramatic effect." He looked over at Wilson hopefully.

Wilson stared back evenly. "House, we've had this discussion. You cannot make an oncologist puke." He shoveled in another mouthful to prove his point.

That sounded like a challenge, and Greg House was never one to slip a challenge.

"Necrotic bowel."

Wilson took another bite.

"Bloody diarrhea."

Wilson gulped down some Tang and looked at House expectantly.

"The smell of advanced gangrene."

Wilson tore into his pound cake.

"Great green globs of greasy grimy gopher guts?" House tried.

Wilson yawned elaborately. "Handsome young oncologist, one. Whiny old diagnostician, zip." He looked around. "On the plus side, you do seem to have worked your magic on some of Uncle Sam's finest."

House looked up. It did seem that there were half a dozen or so fewer soldiers than there had been, and those who remained in earshot were looking decidedly green. Meh. That wasn't a victory. Making _Wilson _sick would have been, but he quietly accepted that he might have to give that dream up forever.

House ate some meatloaf against his better judgement as a cover for watching Wilson. _Dumb Wilson. Why does he have to be so unflappable, anyway?_

Wilson sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

_He's tired. He only does that when he's tired or I've pissed him off. _House thought for a minute. _And I haven't had the chance to piss him off today. _It seemed like a missed opportunity.

Wilson groaned and massaged the back of his neck

_He's stressed. He only does that when he's stressed or I've pissed him off. And I haven't had the chance-what the hell, Greg! Are you teaching Wilsonology 101 here? Give it a fucking rest!_

He shoveled in the rest of his meal and poked Wilson, who was dozing lightly beside him. "Come on, Sleeping Ugly. Let's grab a tent before all the good ones are gone."

They found the ducklings had staked out the last three tents and were currently arguing over who would sleep with whom.

"I'm _not_ sleeping with bloody Foreman!" Chase snapped with a glare at his co-worker. "I had to share a hotel with him at the Atlanta conference and he snores like a jet engine."

Foreman glared back. "I'm surprised you could hear me over your teeth grinding!"

Cameron glared at both of them. "Well, all I know is _no one _is sleeping with me." She gave House a hopeful look. House stepped closer to Wilson. "So you work it out amongst yourselves." She shot into one tent and zipped it decisively closed.

House clapped his hands briskly. "Well, that's decided." He shoved Wilson toward the nearest free tent and smiled at his male ducklings. "You boys go straight to bed, now."

The inside of the tent smelled like canvas, slightly musty canvas, but it was roomy enough and there were two cushy-looking sleeping bags on the floor, so that was okay. Everything said "Property of the US Army", as if George Bush had gone on a drunken tagging spree.

Wilson collapsed in a tired heap and pulled off his shoes, socks, and dress shirt. House followed suit on his own sleeping bag. He lay there in the dark and tried not to think about Wilson tossing and turning just two feet away from him. There was no way anything would happen, not in this smelly US Army tent.

"It's cold as hell in here," Wilson mumbled.

The again, sometimes the gods handed you a gift.

House sighed dramatically and got to his knees. "Come on. Push your sleeping bag next to mine, if you're so cold." He sighed again to show that he was really, _really _put out.

Wilson eagerly complied, started to lie down again, then hesitated. "Switch me sides," he said.

"Why? You afraid the boogeyman lives on that side?"

"No, because if I roll over in the night I don't want to kick your bad leg."

Fuck, but Wilson was hard to resist when he went into Protective Best Friend Mode. House was even briefly tempted to thank him or say something nice back, but fortunately the urge passed.

House rolled onto his good side and Wilson situated himself behind, close enough to share the blast furnace that was House's body but not quite touching him.

All was not so serene in other tents.

"Hey, Foreman," Chase said sleepily from the next tent, "yo mama so old she was a waitress at the last supper."

"Hey, Chase," Foreman snapped back, "yo mama such a cracker her wedding china says Cool Whip on it."

"Hey, Foreman, yo mama so...so...fat-er, no, so ugly...oh, bugger." Chase fell into a sullen silence.

"Don't know what you're whining about," came Cameron's disgruntled voice. "_I _had to share a room with Cuddy at the Atlanta conference and _she _farts in her sleep."

Just inches from House's ear, Wilson gave a sleepy snort of laughter that sent a warm breath across House's skin.

He turned his head toward his roommate. "Wilson?"

"Mmmm?"

"Ever seen Brokeback Mountain?"

"Nope."

A slow smile spread across House's face. "Good."

END PART 3


	4. Chapter 4

1_Author's Note: Not only is this chapter long, it's also about 50 mush. It starts with mush, ends with mush, and has comedy in the middle. Kind of like an Oreo, except an Oreo has taste, unlike this story._

_Warning: Don't wear polyester pants if you plan to light farts._

House woke the next morning to find he had an armful of warm, sleeping oncologist. Sometime during the night Wilson had cuddled up and thrown an arm around House's waist. House had apparently rolled over and pulled him close so that their faces were inches apart. With no one to observe, he took a precious moment to examine the sleeping form.

He was so adorable when he slept. No suit and godawful tie, hair mussed, lips parted, head snuggled into House's chest. He reached over and gently ran a finger across one elegant cheekbone, tracing the arc to Wilson's temple, where the soft hair was just starting to show the barest hint of gray. House smiled softly. When they'd met almost 12 years ago, Wilson had been just a kid, barely out of medical school. The years and the cares they'd brought had added some fine lines to his face, but all in all he had held up well. Truth be told, House himself was probably responsible for most of those lines. Nice to know he'd made an impression, anyway.

House might have resisted the urge to plant a kiss on those parted lips, but Wilson stirred against him and started making his patented sleepy noises. He had lain awake listening to those noises on the many nights Wilson had crashed on his couch over the years. Soft sighs, murmurs, and contented moans that the oncologist vehemently denied making in the light of day.

Wilson sighed quietly and House was undone. Slowly, gently so as not to wake him, House leaned in and touched his lips to Wilson's. The younger doctor smiled in his sleep and muttered something.

_Oh, _this _isn't gay at all_, _Greg. Might as well buy a Village People CD. Might as well go to a Liza Minelli concert. Might as well buy a cat and stick a rainbow flag to my bumper. Might as well-_

Might as well kiss Wilson again.

So he did. This time, Wilson sighed and pursed his lips a little, leaning into the contact. He frowned and made a soft sound of protest when House pulled away.

_Okay, that's it! When this is over I'm going back to my apartment alone and digging out my Man Show DVDs. Midgets, ziggy zoggies, and girls jumping on trampolines-that's what I need right now. Jimmy Kimmel, not Jimmy Wilson, dammit!_

He gently disentangled himself from Wilson, ignoring the feeling of regret at the loss of the warm body. Climbing to his knees, he reached down, grabbed theend of Wilson's sleeping bag, and gave an almighty yank. Wilson was sent tumbling ass over teakettle across the cold floor of the tent. He came to rest against the far wall with a squawk.

"What-? Where-?" Wilson looked around, bleary-eyed and blinking.

House grinned down at him. Wilson was a morning person, always had been, but the exact moment of waking was never his best and brightest. In fact, at that moment the celebrated Cancer Superman, Guardian of Truth, Justice, and North American Oncology looked more like the D student in the special ed class, if the special ed class in question had a doe-eyed male model section.

"House, you asshole," he said wearily, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Wakey wakey, " House said smugly. "Get your lazy ass out of bed or we'll miss out on leftover World War I scrambled eggs."

They dressed quickly, shivering from the cold now that the shared blankets and body heat had been removed from the equation.

"Just for reference, and not that it will make any difference," the oncologist grunted sleepily as they crossed the field to the mess tent, "but there are nicer ways to wake someone."

House rolled his eyes. "What did you expect? A gentle kiss on the lips?"

Wilson looked up at him with a strange expression, then dropped his gaze quickly. "I guess I should be grateful I didn't find my hand in a pan of water again."

House took a mental snapshot of that brief gaze and filed it away under _Wilson.James.new expressions_ to be examined later. "Oh please! That was _soooo_ 2005! Besides, not gonna happen as long as you're sharing a sleeping bag with me, Dr. Pissypants ."

He held the flap of the mess tent open, then pushed Wilson aside and walked in first. "Cripples before retards," he announced.

"Guess you win on both scorecards," Wilson shot back, and quickly maneuvered ahead of him in line.

"Ooooh, got me." He raised his voice to megaphone volume. "It's okay. I don't mind following you, Jimmy. You have a great ass."

Wilson colored slightly. "He's recovering from a full frontal lobotomy," he explained to the soldier handing out MREs.

House got his own meal and waved Wilson toward a table. "Come on," he said, "lunch is on me today."

HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

It was late morning when House met the AntiChrist.

He felt somewhat better, having had a brief shower and a change into scrubs and sneakers. It was almost 10:30 and, in House's opinion, well past time for lunch, but Wilson was busy, so he decided to see one more patient to pass the time. He looked around until he found an easy-looking one, a man with a burned arm.

The AntiChrist was sitting on a cot, reading a back issue of People magazine andpatiently waiting his turn. He looked close to House's age, but short, pudgy, balding, with thick glasses and a knit sweater. All things considered, he looked like a chartered accountant.

"I'm Dr. House. Let's make it quick."

The AntiChrist looked up and smiled pleasantly. "Busy day for you?" he asked, folding the magazine.

House goggled around the chaotic tent. "Uh. Yeah. Suddenly everyone wants medical attention. Has something to do with this bomb thing, I think."

The AntiChrist nodded. "One of my finer moments, if I do say so myself."

House frowned. "_Your_ finer moments? Forgive me for racially profiling, but you don't look North Korean."

"Oh, no. For the moment I've chosen your standard Anglo-Saxon appearance. Makes things here go more smoothly, you know." The man laughed.

"Uh _huh_." House sat down, taking the weight off his aching leg, and popped a Vicodin. He had a feeling he'd need it. "And your normal appearance would be...?"

"Oh, your mind couldn't comprehend it. Melt your brain and send you into madness if you gazed upon it, see." He shrugged. "Always easier when dealing with humans to assume their shape, don't you think?"

"Absolutely." This made a great deal of sense to House, who had often been accused of being a supernatural creature stuffed into a human body.

The man blinked. "Oh, you told me your name and I forgot to give you mine. Rude of me. I'm the AntiChrist, Eater of Worlds, Collector of Souls, Prince of Damnation. You can call me Ed, though." He held out his uninjured hand.

House shook it. "Call me Greg." This was turning out to be the most interesting thing that had happened for years. "So, the arm. What happened to it?"

"I leaned against the roof of a car right after the blast. I'd forgotten how fragile these bodies are."

"You would, if you haven't had one in a few centuries," House agreed. "Could you hang on a sec? I'll just go get what I need."

The AntiChrist waved indulgently.

House grabbed his cane and limped across the tent to where Wilson was just finishing up. He stole a few items from Wilson's bag. "Wilson! Need you over here."

He led his friend back to the accountant-looking man in the cot. "James Wilson, meet Ed the AntiChrist. Ed, Jimmy."

Ed held out his hand. "A pleasure."

Wilson shook automatically. "Likewise, Mr...Antecrist?"

"AntiChrist," Ed corrected. "_The_ AntiChrist. Call me Ed."

Wilson squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them hard. House wondered idly if Wilson believed that if he rubbed hard enough, a genie would pop out and end whatever was annoying him. "Okaaaay."

House jerked a thumb at him. "Jimmy's Jewish. He doesn't believe in hell and the devil and cool theological stuff like that." He sat down and watched the fun like a Roman at the Coliseum.

Ed brightened. "One of God's Chosen! You people are notoriously hard to corrupt, you know." He lowered his voice and leaned in. "I get extra points for Jews, you know, on account of your integrity. I don't suppose you'd want to donate your soul? Just as a favor?"

Wilson sighed. "Actually, no. I have plans for it later."

Ed sighed back. "I thought not. It's that darned Jewish independence. That's exactly why I don't work Brooklyn and Palm Springs."

"This has been fun, but I do have patients waiting. I'm sure you two have a lot in common, considering you both hail from the same place." Wilson shot one more put-upon look at House for good measure and went back to work.

House busied himself cleaning and bandaging the burn on Ed's arm. He was just about to ask what the fair market value would be for the soul of a slightly cynical, people-hating, atheistic diagnostician when a middle-aged woman in a nurse's uniform hurried up.

"_There _you are, Ed!" She bustled up and shook a finger at him. "You just disappeared on me again." She smiled up at House. "Thank you for tending to that burn for me."

"And you would be...?"

"Amanda. I work night shift at St. Ignatius' Home. Ed lives there." She shook her head. "We evacuated this morning. Ed was on my bus, we all got off, and all of a sudden he's gone missing." She took Ed's uninjured arm. "Come on, Ed. Let's go join the rest of the group."

"Nice to have met you, Greg," Ed said, waving cheerfully over his shoulder.

"Back atcha, Ed." House waved back, disappointed. He'd hoped to parlay Ed into an afternoon of loafing, and besides, he was interesting, unlike anything else going down around here.

Oh well. He hadn't come off badly. After all, how many people were on a first-name basis with the Prince of Darkness?

HHHHHHHHHHHHHH

House had lost track of Wilson at some point during the day and had therefore had to eat lunch alone for the first time in forever. That was bad. On the bright side, he'd managed to avoid most real work by limping around and "checking" on patients all day. That was good. When someone would ask him to do something, he'd simply clutch his leg and fake a cramp. Eventually, a nice nurse or sympathetic orderly always led him to a chair, where he'd sit until the danger of work went bye-bye. All things considered, not a bad day at all. Still, it was well past dark when the next shift of doctors came in to take over. Far past House's usual 4pm quitting time, but that was okay. No electricity meant no L-Word, anyway.

He showered and changed into a clean set of scrubs, grabbed two MREs, then headed for the tent he shared with Wilson. He saw that Wilson was already in bed, curled up with his back to House's side, asleep. He had separated the sleeping bags, House noticed with a frown.

Tonight's feast was chicken breast, peas, mashed potatoes with gravy and lemon sponge cake, Wilson's favorite. And, unfortunately for him, House's favorite, too. He practically lived for lemon sponge cake. He figured he'd let Wilson just start on the cake before stabbing his own fork into it and claiming it for himself. Being woke up so abruptly would slow the younger man's reflexes, giving House the competitive edge that was so important in contact sports.

He splatted gracelessly on his sleeping bag and was just about to poke Wilson into wakefulness when he heard the sound. It wasn't one of Wilson's usual sleep noises-House was familiar with all of them. He listened and it came again. No, the quiet hitch of breath was definitely new, especially when followed by an almost inaudible sniffle.

Oh shit. Wilson was crying. House shifted uncomfortably on his sleeping bag. Not the most compassionate person in the world, he didn't deal well with crying people. Normally, he'd deal with it by getting Wilson to deal with it, but that wouldn't help here and now.

Wilson was the most sensitive man House knew, but he didn't cry often. He couldn't operate at full sensitivity and still be an effective oncologist, but House had very occasionally seen a tear or two escape when a favorite patient died. Otherwise, Wilson had turned on the waterworks on two occasions: when his first wife had kicked him out for good and during his young cousin's funeral. Otherwise, Wilson was the rock that everyone else clung to.

House ripped open his MRE. _Let it go. The Boy Wonder will be fine. Better to let him work whatever it was out on his own. He'll be okay by morning and there'll be no awkward there-there-chin-up scenes that I'd just fuck up anyway. _

It was better this way. Really.

He started in on his mashed potatoes when a memory hit him. There had been a third time he'd seen Wilson cry. It was hazy and pain-addled, but he distinctly remembered waking up from his infarction surgery, after his heart had stopped, to see tears streaming down Wilson's cheeks. He'd been so quiet, sitting there beside the bed, but through his pain House had heard the same hitching breaths and soft sniffles his friend was making now.

He set the meal aside and turned toward Wilson. "Hey. I got a meal for you."

"Not hungry right now."

"Want to tell me what happened that got the big bad doc's tightie whities in a wad?" Hm. That hadn't come out right.

Wilson turned over to face him. Damn. It would be easier to talk to his back and not have to see his swollen eyes and wet cheeks. "This woman this morning... her husband was killed yesterday and her ten-year-old died on the table last night. I was working on her five-year-old daughter, but I knew she wasn't going to make it. The last thing on Earth this woman had and I couldn't save her. So after the child died the woman smiled at me, thanked me for everything I did, and-" His breath hitched again and he took a moment to compose himself. "They found her about an hour later, in the woods. I guess she'd broken a bottle and used the pieces."

Not knowing the proper reply, House shifted again, bringing his body a few inches closer to Wilson's. "If you couldn't do anything, no one could, " he said finally. "You were there with that woman and sometimes that's enough. You didn't make her choice." He wanted to say so much more, but Wilson was sitting up now, looking at him. He handed over the unopened MRE. "Here, crybaby. Eat it or I swear I'll slip it into your shorts in the middle of the night."

Wilson wiped his face on his napkin and tore open the meal. "Thanks."

They ate in companionable silence, shoulders just touching. House stole glances at Wilson whenever the other man wasn't looking. His eyes were still red and he still wasn't quite the old James Wilson.

House sighed mentally and came to a decision. _I guess he's worth it._

"Here." He handed Wilson his lemon sponge cake.

Wilson looked over, surprised out of his depression. "_You're_ giving _me_ food?" His eyes narrowed. "What'd you do to it?"

House shrugged. "Licked it. Wiped my armpits with it. Dropped it on the ground. Rolled it around in dogshit."

"So, the usual."

"Yeah."

"Cool." Wilson split the cake in half and gave one to House. "Thanks." He ate his piece in small, bites, savoring the taste.

"Don't mention it." He downed his half in one bite and shook the crumbs on Wilson's sleeping bag.

They used a bottle of water and government-issued toothbrushes that thankfully did not have "Property of US Government" stamped on them.

Wilson dragged his sleeping bag back to lay next to House's. "Do you mind?" he asked.

House gave what he hoped was a casual "Nah. Cold tonight." He relaxed when he felt Wilson's warmth pressing against his back.

They were silent for a moment, then:

"Just so this isn't too gay, Wilson, I'm pretending you're Halle Berry right now."

Wilson snickered. "Fair enough. I'm pretending you're Anna Kournikova."

House opened his mouth to say that he doubted that Halle Berry was the owner of the sizeable package pressed up against his lower back, but thought better of it. That comment might embarrass Wilson into moving away and he definitely did not want that.

"Hey, Jimmy?"

"Huh?"

"Wouldn't it be weird if Halle Berry and Anna Kornikova were in bed together right now pretending they were with us?"

Wilson's answering laugh, deep and sleepy in his ear, made him grin in the dark where no one could see.

_Wouldn't you shit twice and die if you knew that if Halle Berry was here I'd be pretending she was you?_

END PART FOUR


	5. Chapter 5

1

Waking up with Wilson in his arms was becoming a habit. Well, maybe two mornings couldn't be considered a habit. How many could? House didn't know, but he was more than willing to put in the research hours to find out.

Wilson had slept soundly all night and House congratulated himself on the lemon sponge cake maneuver. He was _still _sleeping soundly, a fact which mildly annoyed House, who had lain awake til the wee hours listening to his breathing and making sure there was no recurrence of last night's weeping. There hadn't been, but Wilson had gone to sleep with a stuffy nose, as evidenced by the slightly open mouth and puddle of drool drying on House's shirt. Ew. But it sure paled in comparison to the few times he himself had thrown up on Wilson when either sick or drunk. There would have been many more, but the man was an oncologist and therefore had Kwai Chang Caine-like anti-puke reflexes. He could evade oncoming spew faster than you could say "time for you to leave the temple, young grasshopper".

_Got him pretty good that time I had the flu, though. Bazooka-barfed right on his blue and green striped tie. Fucking hideous tie. I did his wardrobe a favor putting the eighty-six on that one. Serves him right for doing his Saint James routine. Told him to leave me alone, but he insisted on hovering and I puked on him. Pretty decent metaphor for life. Too bad Jimmy's a slow learner._

Speaking of slow learner, how to wake his new tentmate this morning? Yesterday's sleeping bag dump had been great, but House needed something new and refreshing. Sit on top of him and tap a finger in the middle of his forehead? Bad idea. Climbing on top of Wilson would cause a very uncomfortable problem, morning wood-wise. Although seeing his face when he woke up with House's erection pressed into his chest would be interesting...nah.

He looked down at his sleeping friend speculatively. Maybe he was thinking about this the wrong way. Yesterday he had dumped Wilson before he could see his reaction to waking up in House's arms. What would Wilson do if he woke up to find himself still in that situation? In the name of science, House decided to find out.

Unfortunately, Wilson was not cooperating; he showed no signs of stopping those sleepy-noises and coming out of his Rip Van Winkle-like coma. House didn't have the time to lie there and wait; he really had to pee. He shook Wilson experimentally. Nothing. He blew in his ear. Nothing. Damn. He flicked him smartly upside his head. Nothing. Double damn.

House's bladder had started to scream. It was time to bring out the big guns. "Oh my God!" he whispered directly into the sleeping man's ear, "my husband's home early!"

The effect, whether coincidental or not, was immediate. Wilson opened his sleep-blurred brown eyes and blinked rapidly several times. Mindful of the special-ed-student morning routine, House waited patiently, holding his tentmate close, watching gleefully for a reaction.

Wilson stopped blinking and looked into House's face. He seemed to be thinking of what to say and finally settled on a very tentative "Morning?"

House nodded serenely, keeping his grip on Wilson's waist. "Good morning yourself. Sleep well?"

"Yeah, very well." He looked down, following the line of House's arm to where it connected to his own waist. "Are you, uh, holding me?"

House nodded. "So it would appear."

Wilson nodded back, taking this in. "Uh huh. Now, don't take this wrong, but...why?"

House pretended to consider this. "Well, it would have seemed cold to just abandon you after what we shared last night."

Wilson was starting to look slightly flustered. "What? Lemon sponge cake?"

House rolled his eyes. "No, I mean _after _that." He propped himself up on one elbow. "Jimmy, you mean you don't remember waking up last night and..." He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

"And what?"

There was a slight edge to the young doctor's voice, but House noted that there was no real panic and he was making no move to escape the evil clutches of his best friend. Interesting. "Aaaand," he said, drawing out the word suggestively, but leaving the details to the oncologist's vivid imagination.

"No way." Still no panic, but the blinking started again.

House would have loved to play this out and see what happened, but if he didn't get up soon he was going to wet the bed. Not conducive to romance. "Nope. Had you going there, though. Now get away from me." He shoved Wilson-gently-and climbed to his feet. "I gotta piss like a racehorse."

"Jerk," Wilson offered, but there was no real force to it. He seemed to be contemplating. Interesting.

"What would you have done if anything had happened last night?" House said as they made their way to the latrine and parked themselves in front of urinals.

"Done?" he looked confused. "What do you mean, like, what would I do?"

"I mean, would you be pissed? Hit me? Move to another tent? Move to another state? Jump up and scream, 'Why Rhett Butler, Ah do believe you sullied mah honah!' "

"I assume that if..._it_...had happened last night I would have been a willing participant, so...nothing, I guess. I wouldn't do anything."

"So you wouldn't have freaked out?"

Wilson shrugged. "No." He finished and washed up.

House finished and followed. He started to feel that electric excitement he associated with the untangling of a really good puzzle. Kind of a mental boner. "Have you ever thought about it?" he persisted. God, this was getting good.

"About us? You and me?" Wilson sounded casual enough, but House's trained diagnostic mind picked up on the slight tremor. "Sure. I mean, we've known each other a long time and we've camped together, slept at each other's places, you know. It's only natural."

They got their breakfast and found an unoccupied table. House sat down, opened his meal, and started the countdown:

_Three..._

_...two..._

_...one..._

"So, have _you_ ever thought about it?"

House grinned to himself. _Dear, predictable Wilson!_

"Thought about what?" he asked casually, making a show of spooning up some eggs.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "About us."

House frowned. "Oh, are we _still_ talking about that? Jeez, Wilson, gotta get some medication for those obsessions." Hepretended to consider the question. "I guessonce or twice. Maybe."

_Yeah, Greg, once or twice an hour. _He went back to attacking his breakfast and waited.

_Three..._

_...two..._

_...one..._

"And?"

House played it cool, feigning exasperation. "This unholy preoccupation with me is not healthy. Really. You should talk to someone about it."

Wilson gestured at him with a cheese-covered fork. "Heyyou'rethe one who was holding me this morning, not the other way around.Then you start a conversation about it and now you're trying to ditch that conversation by turning it around on me." He stuck the cheese in his mouth and gave his friend a speculative look. "So, finish what you started."

Interesting again. Wilson was generally okay with letting a topic go. Oh, he bitched and complained and always found another time to bring it up, but this time he was sticking with it like a Twinkie to a fat woman's thigh. Interesting, possibly encouraging, but also embarrassing. He suddenly felt like he'd let the genie out of the bottle-and this particular brown-eyed, pocket-protector-wearing, ugly-tie-sporting, oncologically-minded genie was refusing to play nice and go back in.

House looked around for an escape hatch and found one. "Oh look, Jimmy. My ducklings." He gestured to the three standing in line. "It's been so long since I've touched base with my team. You understand, don't you?" He half-stood and raised his voice. "Oh evil minions! Come join Daddy and Uncle Jimmy for breakfast!"

The trio shuffled over and sat. One glance told him that gruntled they were not. "What's wrong? Talk to Papa."

Foreman glared at Chase. "He bit me last night."

House nodded wisely. "Now, Chase, I've told you that many men don't like it when you use teeth during a blowjob. I know I don't, right, Wilson?"

Wilson ignored him in favor of a donut.

"I bit you," Chase said tersely, "because you rolled over on me. I was suffocating!"

"Well, now that's settled, Cameron, what about you? What has your size-zero panties in a wad?"

The non-testosterone member of the team shook her head. "Well, for one thing, I had to listen to them. I guess it brought on a weird dream."

House leaned forward eagerly. "What was I wearing?"

Cameron glared. Oh good. Three glares in one morning and he'd barely had to try.

"It was about this crooked cop," she went on, "and House did something to piss him off."

"Nothing unbelievable so far," Wilson contributed.

"So he decided to get revenge. He tried to get us to talk about you and none of us would, so he started harassing us. First he impounded Wilson's car and then he froze all our accounts."

"Never happen," Foreman said. "My lawyer eats guys like that for breakfast."

Cameron frowned at the interruption. "There were no lawyers."

Chase snorted. "Well, that's just stupid."

"Finally, he gets Wilson to agree to testify against House in court. House goes home and swallows a bottle of pills with scotch-"

"Sounds like a typical Friday night," Wilson muttered.

"-and Wilson walks in, finds him OD'd on the floor, lying in a pool of vomit, and turns around and walks out."

"Oh, thanks a lot, Jimmy!" House shook his head sadly. "After all these years of undying Beau Geste loyalty you leave me to die all alone on the floor covered in puke." He stuck out his egg-covered tongue.

"Hey, what are you complaining about? I was the dream asshole!" Wilson looked outraged at the thought. "I might kill you one day, House, but trust me, I'd never leave you without finishing the job."

"Take it easy, Wilson," Chase soothed. "It was only a dream. Not like any of that would ever happen."

"You should fire whoever writes your dreams," Foreman said in disgust.

"Now if you want to hear a really good dream," House said, "there I was on a desert island with Phylicia Rashad, a tub of Jello, and a goat-"

All three ducklings stood up in unison.

"The goat was really flexible!" House called after them. "Philistines! No appreciation for the arts," he sighed.

Wilson cleared his throat. "Now, what were we talking about before you were saved by your team?"

House stood quickly. "Oh, no time for personal chatter right now, Wilson. Places to go and people to heal." He grabbed his cane.

"Right, you're all about the healing," his friend said sarcastically.

House shot him a mock-hurt look. "I'm a _doctor_. There are people _suffering _out there."

"There are people suffering right here. From acute bullshit poisoning." Wilson finished his milk and stood up. "That's okay. I can wait. After all, we share a tent." He shot House a smug look, stretched and yawned, and slowly strode out of the mess tent.

"You stole that smug look from me!" House shouted after him. "Copycat!"

_Why does it look so much better on him?_


	6. Chapter 6

1The new doctor was tall, blonde, with a near-model good looks and an ass so curvy it looked like she was smuggling midgets in her scrubs. House was watching her closely. His eyes were riveted to her slender form as she moved again.

_If the bitch touches Wilson's arm once more I swear to God I'll__jab her with an infected needle and send her back to hell where she came from._

Worse, Wilson was being...Wilson. Dr. ManWhore was playing right along, leaning close, giving her his bedroom smile, brushing against her unholy shoulder.It was disgusting and unprofessional, and House had had enough. He limped across the med tent toward the happy couple.

"Why, Jimmy," he said loudly, "I'm glad you've decided to start dating again. You know, herpes may be forever, but it shouldn't keep you from enjoying life."

Wilson colored slightly and rolled his eyes. "Mary Sue, this is Greg House_."_

The Bitch turned her smile on him and held out her paw. "Pleased to-"

House planted a hand in the middle of Wilson's back and shoved. "Cameron needs you in med tent 2. Something about a lymphoma patient of yours from PPTH."

Wilson took off without another word to Dr. Scary Sue or whatever her name was. One thing about the man: he might be a huge slut, but his patients always came first.This made him extremely easy to manipulate, very convenient for someone as Machiavellian as Greg House.

Dr. Mary Sue looked surprised. "Well, that was-"

"It sure was," House said, moving away. "Good observation."He left her with her mouth hanging open and left the tent to find Wilson

Wilson met him halfway. "There was no lymphoma patient!"

House frowned. "There wasn't? That Dr. Cameron is a damned liar."

"You-" Wilson leveled a finger at him, "-you lied just to get me away from Mary Sue."

"Why, James, I'm hurt. I would no sooner lie to you than go hunting with Dick Cheney."

"If you've ever told the truth in your life it was by accident." Hands went to hips, irritated wrinkles appeared on forehead. This was the Wilson version of a real snit. "You're always sticking your nose in my social life."

"Okay, okay," House conceded. "But only to save you from yet another in a long series of bad marriagesWho knows which ex-wife you'd be divorcing right now if it weren't for me? Seventh? Eighth? James Wilson: the Elizabeth Taylor of New Jersey."

"Oh, you are so full of shit! You know why you don't want anyone else to have me?"

Uh oh. This conversation was edging into the dangerous territory that House had been avoiding since that morning. Maybe a slight diversion was in order. "Hey, Wilson, I think I hear suffering. Isn't it time for you to step into your phone booth, put on your cape, and-"

"You don't want anyone else to have me because you want me for yourself!"

Well, shit. Now the conversation had passed through mere dangerous territory and had been dropped, bleeding, into shark-infested waters. The only shark repellant House had was sarcasm, so he uncapped the can and let loose.

"Right. Everyone wants you. No ego problems in Wilsonland, is there? I hear you scream your own name when you come."

Wilson scowled. "Very mature comeback. You're afraid to discuss it because if you do, you put yourself at risk of rejection. Or worse, I say yes and you have to rearrange everything and actually let someone into that cesspool of misery you call a life."

Then again, there never had been an effective shark repellant. All House could do now was swim like hell for shore and hope Roy Scheider brought a bigger boat. "Hear this?" House cocked a hand behind one ear. "It's silence. Know why? To spare you the derisive laughter that's ringing through my head."

Wilson threw up his hands. "Fine. Run away. It's what you always do when someone gets too close. You're a fucking coward." He turned on one heel and disappeared into the med tent.

"See if you get Hanukkah presents from me this year," House yelled toward Wilson's retreating back.

HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Greg House was nothing if not a creature of habit, especially in times of stress. As far as lunch went, he liked Reuben sandwiches (no pickle), General Hospital on TV, and his Coma Guy. Unfortunately for him and his Rainman-like routine, there was no Reuben and no GH, but he did manage to find a Coma Guy.

Of course, it wasn't _his _Coma Guy; in fact, it was a Coma Chick, but House didn't discriminate based on gender when it came to coma patients. All he asked was that she retain a respectful silence and not interrupt while he ranted about Wilson.

"So then he said '_Or worse, I say yes and you have to rearrange everything and actually let someone into that cesspool of misery you call a life_.' What the hell does that mean?"

Coma Chick didn't know, so he went on. "Does it mean that he's open to the idea of us together? Or does that mean he's trying to find out whether _I'm_ open to the idea of us together?"

He took a bite out of his peanut butter sandwich. "He's always saying I'm happy being miserable. That doesn't even make sense. It's a contradiction in terms." He was speaking with his mouth full, but Coma Chick kindly overlooked the breach of etiquette.

Coma Chick didn't get it, so he elaborated. "See, if I'm _happy _then I'm not _miserable_, see? But that's Wilson's fallback position whenever he can't figure me out. I mean, it's not like life with Wilson is a big mystery. The man has probably spent a total of four of the past twelve years sleeping on my couch. He's loud in the morning, he's compulsively neat, and he practically wets his nappies when I leave so much as a dirty fork in the sink." He popped an apple slice in his mouth. "Did I mention that he blow dries his hair?"

Coma Chick couldn't believe this, so House went on. "It's not like living with him is impossible, though. He is a great cook. " He leaned down and lowered his voice. "I even like his stuffed peppers, just a little, but don't tell him, okay?"

Coma Chick did not seem to be the tell-tale type, so House decided to trust her with one more secret. "Now, I know what you're going to ask. You're going to say that, if Wilson and I have been friends for all these years and we get along well, and we actually like living together, what the hell is the big deal about a relationship." He took a deep breath and a calming drink of Coke. "The problem is that the man is not relationship material. Or, more to the point, he's too much relationship material. He barely starts one before jumping into an affair. See, he needs so much to be needed that-oh shit, now I sound like him. Anyway, if we did start something and he ran out on me...I don't know if I could stand that. Not from him."

House got up, tossed his MRE wrappers into a nearby trash bin, and saluted his lunch companion. "Thanks for listening."

HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

It was almost eight when House collected two MREs and got back to the tent he shared with Wilson. He was leery about the upcoming meeting and hoped that the other doctor had at least calmed down enough to accept an evasion.

House's standard MO in these cases was to walk away, which he had done, and then to come back later as if nothing had happened. Wilson usually gave him a heartfelt look but let the whole thing go. House was on shaky ground this time, sensing that this was important enough for Wilson to stick with.

The best defense being a strong offense, House decided on a grand entrance. "Good evening, Dr. Abnormal Growth. I've got us-"

The tent was empty. No Wilson. House felt a sneaking sense of relief. No doubt he'd been caught working late on some case and would be back at any moment, but at least the scene would be postponed. Hopefully, until House had eaten his dinner.

Dinner came and went with no sign of Wilson. Relief turned to annoyance and maybe a little jealousy.

_He's pouting, so he's found another place to sleep. He's trying to guilt me into giving in. Well, fuck him! Not like I care where he sleeps. Not like he does, either, obviously._

He tossed the empty wrappers, along with crumbs, into Wilson's sleeping bag, and got himself ready for bed. He climbed into his own bag, but couldn't seem to find a comfortable position. The absence of a warm body next to his, of those familiar breathing patterns and sleep noises, seemed to conspire against him.

He tossed and turned, fuming, aching, and generally ready to Ozzy Osbourne the first person who spoke to him. A part of him that he normally kept chained, sedated, and lobotomized whispered that the anger felt better than the hurt that was poking at the edges of his mind.

He must have dozed off because he woke with a start when he felt someone shaking and poking him.

"Dr. House?" Shake. Poke.

"Who the fuck and what the fuck?" he snapped, opening his eyes directly into a flashlight.

A young soldier was kneeling over him. "It's Private Jackson. Sorry to wake you, doc, but have you seen Dr. Wilson?"

House closed his eyes against the offending beam. "Yeah. He's white, about six feet tall, brown hair, brown eyes, and stupid blow-dried hair. If you need him, just blow the cancer whistle. Go away." He turned away.

Private Jackson didn't move. "Dr. Wilson went out with some men on a mobile relief effort this afternoon. They should have been back hours ago, but no one's seen them."

House stood as quickly as his damaged leg would allow. "Let's go."


	7. Chapter 7

1_**Author's Note: **This story has gotten a bit more angsty than I intended. Please let me know if I'm getting too emo or out of character. _

_**Warning: **Never let a friend convince you to wade hip-deep into the Gulf to investigate a mysterious object that may or may not be a bale of cocaine. It'll be a giant rock and all you'll get out of it is wet up to your crotch.__Too bad, though. We could have retired on a bale of cocaine._

House slammed his cane onto the metal table in front of the head army dude. "How the fuck could you allow a civilian doctor to leave the safety of camp?"

The colonel turned to face him. House had a feeling that no one had ever spoken to him that way, but that was one character-building experience House intended to give him. "Dr. House, I'm sorry about Dr. Wilson, but he volunteered, knowing the risks."

"Of course he volunteered! The man is a need magnet! I want to know what you're doing to find him." He tapped his cane on the table to emphasize his words. Something about the whole scene seemed eerily familiar to him, but his tired, stressed mind wouldn't translate.

"We know where the rescue party stopped," the colonel sighed and rubbed his eyes in a gesture heartbreakingly reminiscent of Wilson. "We have their location on GPS, but reports have some hostiles in that area."

"What the hell does that mean?" House leaned down. "Speak English or get me a fucking translator!"

"Basically assholes who take advantage of a disaster situation. Looters, rapists, criminals of every stripe who raid a city after something happens." The colonel shook his head. "I helped clean up after Katrina. Saw a lot of it. The problem is, it's full dark and the streets are covered with rubble. We'll get a rescue operation at first light."

House had seen the footage and heard the stories about what had happened in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Looting and raping was the least of what went on as human vultures prowled the ruined city, preying on fellow survivors. House refused to dwell on what might have happened to Wilson or still be happening right now. "Always glad to add to my vocabulary," he snapped, "now you're going to get a team to go out there- _now_-or I'll go myself."

And just then he had it, what the scene reminded him of. Twenty years of different voices, different patient's loved ones:

_What are you doing to save my wife?_

_What's wrong with my brother, and don't say you need to do more tests!_

_How can you just sit on your ass while my husband is dying?_

_Don't spout medical crap at me-what's wrong with my father?_

The helplessness, the panic, the knowledge that there might not be anything anyone can do to save the person you love most. It came out in anger directed at the closest person. Not logical. Not rational. But the only thing you could do.

The guilt.

_If I hadn't fought with him_ _he would have told me he was going and I could have talked him out of it. Damn Wilson for being so fucking stubborn!_

The colonel looked up at him for a minute. "You've been friends a long time." It was a statement, not a question.

House dropped his eyes, unwilling to let the other man see the depth of emotion that held sway there. "Wilson's a good doctor," he said finally. "We need him around here."

The colonel was silent for a minute. "I can have a rescue team ready in five minutes."

House nodded. "I'm going. You might need a doctor."

"I should say no, but I have a feeling that wouldn't stop you. I'd probably just find myself short a HumVee." He sighed again. "Okay, fine, but my men are in charge. Do what they say when they say. Your friend's life may depend on it."

Relief coursed through House. At least he was doing something, and the forward momentum felt better than the helpless inertia of a moment ago. "Admiral," he assured the other man with as much sincerity as he could muster, "I have nothing but respect for authority."


	8. Chapter 8

1_**Author's Note: **Sorry it's been so long since the last chapter. Hope you remember what's going on. If not, here's a recap: Princeton blew up, House wants Wilson, Wilson wants House, House doesn't want to admit he wants Wilson, Wilson is angry because House doesn't want to admit that he wants him, Wilson_ _went missing, House missed Wilson who was missing, and House went to make Wilson not missing anymore. Everyone got that? Good. On with the next chapter._

The HumVee bounced roughly through the ruined streets. Shots of pain stabbed through House's mangled thigh with each jolt, but he didn't protest. It was better to concentrate on the pain than what they might find. Or not find.

What life would be like without Wilson's steady presence was unthinkable. What life would be like never knowing what happened to Wilson would be unlivable. House's disciplined mind tuned out the unwanted thoughts as he forced himself to concentrate on the pain in his leg, the passing miles, the price of tea in China, anything else.

The HumVee came to an abrupt halt, throwing House forward. Private Jackson's arm kept him from crashing into the front seat. House looked at the protective arm laying across his chest and raised an eyebrow. "Touch me like that again and you'll have to marry me, sailor."

Jackson gave him a faint smile and removed the arm. "This is where the rescue party stopped." He checked his rifle and opened the door. "Stay here, Doc."

"The hell-" he tried to push past Jackson, but the young soldier pressed him back.

"It's all rubble out here," he said reasonably. "No offense, but your leg doesn't look so hot. Let us clear the building first and then we'll call you if we need you, yeah?"

House gritted his teeth. "I'm fine."

"If you trip over something and mess yourself up you won't be doing Doc Wilson any good. Besides," he offered House the small grin again, "Colonel put me in charge of you. Wouldn't want me shipped off to latrine duty in Penguin Fuck, Antarctica, would you?"

"Wouldn't want that," House agreed. He clenched his fists in his lap, cursing his injured leg. Seven years ago, he would have sprung past Jackson, knocking the boy on his ass if necessary, and rushed into the streets to James' rescue. As it was, Jackson was right: he'd be in the way and one more person for the soldiers to worry about when they should be focused on the lost party. On Wilson. He held his tongue and kept his seat.

"Hey," Jackson threw back over his shoulder, "I'll look out for him."

Out the window, House could see the soldiers converging on a fallen-in building. It was hard to see exactly what was going on, but he heard the crunching of boots fading. He could only hope that Wilson had not been in the building when it had collapsed.

Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps was drowned out by gunfire and shouts. House grabbed his medical bag, fumbled for the latch and jumped out of the vehicle. His first step brought his foot down on uneven ground and he pitched forward, landing awkwardly on his bad knee. Agony shot up his leg and he cried out, but managed to struggle to his feet.

Inside the building the gunshots ceased. House made his way across the street to the building where the soldiers had disappeared. Slowly. Too damn slowly.

One of the soldiers stuck his head out the door. "Doc! Need you in here. Can you make it?"

"Trying!" House gritted his teeth against the pain and quickened his pace as much as he could, almost sick with dread. He tried to speed up, but stumbled over rubble and fallen masonry. Time seemed to stand still and he felt like he had in those dreams where he ran from something but never got anywhere. This time, instead of running away, he was running toward a building that was getting farther away.

He was barely aware of reaching the door, shoving past the soldier, and limping toward the source of the noise. He was barely aware of the gesturing soldiers, the ragged-looking corpses of ragged-looking civilians, or the smell of spent gunpowder that hung in the air.

At that moment, House was only aware of Wilson's still body spread out on the filthy concrete and of Private Jackson kneeling over him, compressing his chest in rhythmic motion while another soldier pressed a bloodied piece of cloth to a wound near his shoulder. Shock due to blood loss.

House tossed his cane to the floor and dropped to his knees at Wilson's head. Even in the faint light he could see the pale skin and blue tinge to his friend's lips. Wilson had stopped breathing.

He quickly tilted Wilson's head back, clearing his airway, pinched his nostrils shut, and clamped his lips down, breathing for his friend. He blocked out all that was happening around him, refusing to feel how cold the oncologist's skin and lips were under his own. Nothing mattered but bringing Wilson back.

_Two breaths. Come on, Wilson! Come on, dammit! Breathe. Help me out. You're not so badly hurt that you're going to leave me. Two breaths. _

No response from the cold form, but still he and Jackson persevered, working in tandem.

A sergeant stepped forward and laid a hand on Jackson's shoulder. "Jax, I don't think-"

Jackson shook the man's hand off and continued his compressions. The soldier tried again. "Jax, there are other hostiles in this area. We need to get back to camp. Dr. Wilson is gone. I'm sorry, but I'm ordering you to stop."

Jackson ignored him. The sergeant sighed, rolled his eyes, but kept the peace. "The rest of you start loading our wounded. Jax, you got until the Hummer is loaded and that's it."

House continued to breathe for Wilson between Jackson's compressions, looking without hope for some sign of life.

"Come on, Jimmy," he whispered desperately, patting his friend's cheek. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to leave me alone."

Wilson gasped suddenly and started choking. House quickly lifted his head onto his lap. "Open your eyes, Wilson!" he ordered.

Wilson's lids fluttered and opened. "Where-" he whispered weakly and moaned. "My shoulder..."

"Knife wound," Jackson said, slightly out of breath from the compressions. "Looks like he lost a shitload of blood before we got here."

House nodded. "It's okay. We'll get you back to camp and give you a few pints."

Wilson offered a half-smile. "Make it Heineken."

House slapped him on the head lightly. "Shut up. After what you just put me through, you don't get any beer."

Two soldiers gently lifted Wilson and carried him toward the Hummer.

"Don't drop him," House called after them tiredly. "If you break him, you buy me a new best friend." He heaved himself painfully to his knees, suddenly aware of how much he'd pushed his leg over the past half hour. He teetered on the brink of falling, but Jackson's steadying hand held him.

"Come on," the kid said, handing him his discarded cane, hauling him to his feet and half-carrying him out.

They made their way past the corpses and back into the street. House settled himself beside Wilson in the cramped vehicle and took his hand, half-monitoring his pulse but really needing to feel the warmth that had returned to Wilson's skin.

"He gonna be okay?" Jackson jerked his chin toward Wilson.

"Yeah." House turned his gaze on the young soldier. "Thanks. For not giving up."

Jackson shrugged. "Promised you I'd look out for him, didn't I?"

"I figured that would end when your sergeant ordered you to stop."

Jackson grinned. "Sarge knows me. He's used to ordering and I'm used to kinda forgetting what he ordered." He raised one eyebrow. "He doesn't mind much, as long as I don't blow anything up. Besides, I hear you're not too hot on orders, either."

House looked at the raised eyebrow and snorted. Wilson gave a soft, wheezing laugh in response. "You just reminded us of another stubborn, insubordinate black guy we know."

_**HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH**_

Back at camp, House made sure Wilson was stable and settled into a comfortable position before he cleaned and dressed the shoulder wound. It had been close, far too close to his brachial artery for House's comfort. He'd come close to losing Wilson tonight, he knew that. He pushed the thought out of his mind as he returned to his friend's bedside with a unit of whole blood.

"I know you prefer double-D's, but you'll have to settle for A tonight," he announced, waggling the blood bag. He stopped and frowned.

An elderly man in a Roman collar and black shirt and pants was sitting by Wilson's bed, holding his hand and praying softly. Wilson was smiling softly and nodding his thanks.

"Since when did Johnny Cash make house calls?" House asked loudly. He prodded the old man's chair. "He's Jewish, not very good at that, and not wanting to convert."

Wilson found the strength to roll his eyes. "House, Father Stan is just trying to comfort the sick, of which I am now a member."

"You are not sick," House protested. "You have a little scratch on your shoulder." He gestured to his own right thigh. "Wanna compare scars? Pretty sure mine's bigger than yours."

Father Stan stood up. "God doesn't care what religion you are or whose is bigger." He gave House a pointed stare. The old priest patted Wilson's hand gently.

"Jesus loves you, my son," he said to House. "I, however, reserve the right to think you're an asshole." He winked at Wilson and walked away, leaving House to gape at his black-clad back.

Wilson opened his eyes. "Did a Catholic priest just call you an asshole?" he whispered.

"I think so."

"That does it. You've pretty much managed to offend every major world religion."

House fiddled with Wilson's IV line. "Not true. I've never been given the finger by a Shaolin monk."

"Kicked in the balls by an imam?"

"Happened when I was fourteen." He looked into his friend's eyes. "How do you feel?"

Wilson groaned softly. "Well, it feels like my brains are going to seep out of my head and my stomach is going to come bursting out of my mouth."

"Crybaby." They looked at each other fondly for a moment, then House said, "Wait. I think I missed offending the Jews."

Wilson sighed. "Regrettably, no."

House frowned. "When?"

"That time you asked my rabbi if he was the guitarist for ZZ Top."

House's face lit up. "Oh yeah. Boy, talk about an awkward Yom Kippur, huh?"

"Still, he was impressed that you were able to insult him in fluent Hebrew." Wilson smiled tiredly. "Thanks for coming to get me."

House shrugged. "I had some room in my schedule. Had to miss Yankee Workshop, but...I guess it's better than having to miss a best friend."

"You'd have missed me?" Wilson asked.

House searched his face for any sign of teasing, but the tired brown eyes were soft and questioning. "I think that's what I said."

"Just as a friend?"

House dropped his eyes. He knew what Wilson was asking, but he wasn't sure he could find the right answer. Wilson's serial infidelity, his own misery, everything that had been holding them back all these years, everything that was standing in their way now.

"Look-" He started to explain why their relationship was perfect the way it was, why anything more would just lead to disaster for them both. He stopped, seeing Wilson's own eyes drop, defeated. In the face of almost losing Wilson, all of his objections suddenly empty. It didn't make sense to worry about what might happen when he'd almost been denied the chance to even try.

"No," he said finally. "Much more than that."

Wilson looked up. "You mean it? Are you saying-" his voice went hoarse and he coughed. House held his head up and gave him a few sips of water. "Are you saying you want to be with me?"

House opened his mouth to point out that, technically, he was "with" him now, had been "with" him many times before, but that he'd now like to be "with" him in the Lifetime movie of the week sense of the word, but closed his mouth. It would be too much like Bill Clinton debating the meaning of the word "is".

"That's what I'm saying," he said finally.

The defeated look drained form Wilson's eyes and with it his energy. "Me too," he said simply. "Don't even think about sleeping here, House. Go back to the tent. You need..." His eyes drifted closed.

"Will do." He dragged a cot close to Wilson's bed and eased his aching body down. His leg was going to have something to say to him tomorrow, but for tonight he was happy to pop an extra Vicodin and listen to Wilson breathe.

Just as Wilson was getting started on his sleepy noises, House himself drifted off.

_Turned my best friend into a boyfriend. Pretty cool magic trick, Greg._


	9. Chapter 9

1

"_House!"_

_House spun around to find Cuddy standing behind him, exuding the odd aroma of Joy perfume and brimstone. The horns sticking out of her perfectly-coiffed hair were slightly off-putting, but there was something to be said for the forked tail trailing out of her bright red lace teddy._

"_You owe me clinic hours_, _House."_

_House shrugged. "I also owe Keanu Reeves an ass-kicking for wasting two hours of my life with the last Matrix movie. Doesn't look like either one of us is getting what we want."_

_Cuddy pointed one steaming acrylic-tipped red nail at him. "I _liked _the last Matrix movie. Gregory House, for crimes against humanity you are sentenced to eternity of clinic duty_!" _The walls fell away and suddenly he was standing in the middle of the clinic, a clinic filled with soccer moms toting sniffling toddlers. They started shuffling toward him, calling his name and shoving their ankle-biters at him._

_Slightly alarmed now, House held up his hands to Cuddy. "Wait a minute! Let's make a deal: I won't kick Keanu's ass and you_-_you make them go away."_

_Cuddy threw her head back and cackled. She gestured at House. "Dr. House will see you in Exam Room One," she said to the crowd._

_They shuffled towards him, more and more, until his back was pressed against the wall._

_Cuddy's horns twitched in amusement. "You should have done your clinic hours when you had the chance, House-_

"_-House-"_

"_-House-"_

"House!"

House came awake with a jerk and instantly regretted it. His back, neck, and leg were all singing old Yoko Ono tunes thanks to being forced to spend the night on an old cot.

On the plus side, he was staring directly at a great set of boobs.

The boobs in question were attached to none other than Lisa Cuddywho was leaning over his cot, shaking him. "House! It's good to see-"

He held up one finger, cutting her off abruptly. Cautiously, slowly, he reached up and poked his fingers through her hair. "No horns," he remarked, relieved.

She poked her own fingers into his hair. "No manners," she shot back."And please tell me you weren't having an erotic dream about Keanu Reeves."

House colored. "Heard that, did you?"

She crossed her arms and nodded.

"Well, sorry to be the one to dash all your hopes, but I have to report that I am now a happily married man."

Cuddy looked skeptical. "Really? And how much tequila did it take for that to happen?"

A hoarse voice came from beside them. "Just one. I'm a cheap date." Wilson was sitting up and grinning.

House's heart ached at seeing Wilson's wince as he sat up, but he stepped on the urge to ask all sorts of whiny, doctory questions like 'How are you feeling' and settled for, "You're awake. Good. Go get me breakfast."

The oncologist tilted his head. "Hmmm, gee, love to, but- "he made a gesture toward his bandaged shoulder. "-kinda laid up right now. You, however, can go get mine." He shot House a triumphant glance.

House sighed, made a bigger than normal show of popping his pills, and heaved himself to his feet. "Your shoulder better heal," he said. "Don't wanna be burdened with a damn cripple for the rest of my life." He meant to exit on that one-liner, but he glanced at his best friend and saw the exasperated affection sparkling in the warm brown eyes, softening the pain lines on his face. Without meaning to, he smiled back and they both cracked up laughing.

Cuddy looked from one to the other, confused. "Were you serious? You two got _married_?"

"Well, we haven't really gone that far," Wilson said.

"Yeah, we're still arguing over the big questions like whether to invite Wilson's incontinent old Great-Aunt Ethel and whether I'll be Dr. Wilson or he'll be Dr. House-"

Wilson chimed in. "I voted for House-Wilson and yes to my Aunt Ethel-"

"-then there's the matter of the bridesmaids dresses. I say Chase would look hideous in yellow tulle, but Wilson says it's no worse than what he wears to work every day." He raised his eyebrows at Cuddy. "Don't get me started on what he wants to put on the invitations."

Good enough. Redeemed, he limped out, but not before hearing a shell-shocked Cuddy ask, "So you _really _..."

_**HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH**_

It was amazing, House thought, how his ducklings always seemed to sense a sea change in his life. Even a lake change or a puddle change. It was as if they received radio transmissions from Mars. In Chase's case, it was more like Uranus, but the point stood.

Anyway, by the time House returned with the meals they were all grouped around Wilson and Cuddy, heads together. They all snapped around when House walked up. Cameron was, predictably, the first one on her feet.

"Congratulations," she said with a game smile. Looking at her, House could practically see the bright future she'd planned for the two of them waving at her from the caboose of a departing train: two blue-eyed children-boy and girl, of course-two story Victorian with a white picket fence, and nary a Vicodin in sight. Probably been taken off the market in Cameronland, along with everything but puppies and warm spring days.

"Thanks," he said. "And just so you know, I've always hated Victorians, anyway."

Chase reached over to shake his hand and Foreman was standing with his arms crossed, smirking in that annoyingly superior way. God, House hated superior, smirking people who weren't him. He waved his hands through the air as though banishing a bad smell. "Okay, people, Wilson needs his rest. Only doctors allowed here." He paused. "Only doctors who are dating him." He paused again. "Granted, that could be anyone in the state of New Jersey with a medical degree and some free time, so just get the hell out."

Cuddy hesitated. "House, if you need-"

House brandished his cane. "Begone, Satan's Plaything, and take Yakko, Wakko and Dot with you."

House made sure they were gone and then poked Wilson in the side with his cane. "Scoot over."

"What?"

"You heard me. Scoot."

Sigh. "House, this is a single bed, never mind the fact that my shoulder hurts like a-"

"If you expect a honeymoon handjob from me, you'll find a way."

Wilson brightened. "Then again, why not?" He wiggled a little and managed to make about 4 inches of room.

House perched one buttcheek on the bed and eased over onto his side, jockeying for position. A few "Ow, dammits!" and "Well, give me more room!" later they were lying, bent and twisted, but together.

Wilson looked into House's eyes--not difficult, considering they were scrunched up not two inches form his own. "So, what now?" he asked awkwardly.

House rolled his baby blues. "Now we get stoned and talk about sitar music, what do you think?" He slid a hand under the covers and down Wilson's leg.

Wilson fidgeted. "This is a little uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable after 12 years of friendship?"

"No, uncomfortable with your elbow in my spleen." Wilson jerked back, freeing the squished organ. "Sorry, House. I don't think this is going to work."

House nodded. "Well, I guess we could just lie here and take a nap." He shuddered. "I think we're getting a preview of old age."

Wilson turned his head to watch him. "Are you disappointed?"

Truth be told, House wanted Wilson, but for more than a quick handjob under the sheets in a smelly, noisy tent. Of course, there was something to be said for a handjob under _any _circumstances, but he grudgingly had to admit that lying here with Wilson was way better than that. Not that he planned to let Wilson off the hook that easily.

"I was hoping that life with you would mean non-stop sexual perversions, many of which would be recorded and saved to DVD to be entered into the Guinness Book, but if you're going to cock-block me like this..."

Wilson grinned. "Yes, well, sorry my broken body fails to amuse."

"Totally. I should go find Cuddy and take her out back for a quick one." House slid an arm behind Wilson's head.

"You should."

"I will." He pulled Wilson to his shoulder.

"Go for it."

"See if I don't." He settled back against the pillows.

Wilson snorted into his neck. "You're not going anywhere, so just shut up and get some rest."

House opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out.

_Holy shit. I've just been domesticated! _


End file.
